


la petite mort

by elebuu



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Sorry Not Sorry, anth!reader, crossposting from tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 02:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15787314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elebuu/pseuds/elebuu
Summary: Death.Death has several forms.





	la petite mort

“So you work with the dead, huh?”

You half-turned your face to him, finding his weary, yet inquisitive expression. “You could put it that way. Yes.”

He nodded slowly, bringing his head back around to face in front of him. “Sometimes I think I envy that.”

“They aren’t very talkative,” you offered.

“Yeah. That’s sorta the appeal.” The ghost of a crooked laugh crawled up the corner of his mouth, before it was replaced with the same intense, contemplative look he gave you moments before. “ _Forensic_  anthropology, though? You could be anywhere, y’know. Got a good head on your shoulders. Why put up with horror and cops?”

The amber whirlpool in your glass settled as you set it down carefully on the coffee table. Hank liked it strong, and that was what he kept at home, where you both inexplicably wound up after work. For whatever reason, he’d chosen tonight to get chatty with you, and the bar just seemed too loud for conversation.

The warmth of the whisky would make your head spin if you kept going at this rate, much as it was oddly stirring to see a brief grin of something like admiration play out on his face as you kept up with his pours.

You shifted a little so you could lean on the back of the couch, but speak in his direction.

“It wasn’t my first choice. When I started, it just seemed like a good lead out of doctoral school into a job, and I’d take it from there.” You frowned, but he only regarded you with a patient flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes. “But… then the cases started coming in. Nobody calls us directly; they call you first, and then it’s you guys that phone us up. Ever since androids have started assisting with investigations, diagnostics has been a breeze…”

Hank surprised you in setting his glass down as well, though his weathered fingers remained elegantly tented over the rim. “Yet, when it’s the next-door neighbours, and they know enough to recognize that a bone they found in the garden used to be part of a human face…” You shook your head. You were about to apologise for the macabre turn in conversation when you noticed the intense expression hadn’t faded from him, and now in fact invited you to continue.

“It’s… one thing when you have documents, fingerprints, even, when there are written records and testimonies and evidence that can be sampled on-site with a reliable chance of matching something somewhere. But we don’t get called for those so much these days.” You picked up your glass and nipped at a rivulet of your drink, returning it to the table with a demure clink.

“I decided to stay because when someone just shows up in pieces in the garden, and there are no records, no witnesses… we’re sometimes the only people there to remember them.”

Hank nodded slowly, strong silver brows furrowed. “Yeah. Being the bearer of bad news kinda makes you a source of relief when the families don’t even know what to think happened.” He drew deep from his glass, placing the last fluid crescent at the bottom down next to yours.

A darkness you couldn’t really read all the way through wandered from his features, the peaks and hollows and crags of arresting, untraditional beauty.

“’World needs that from time to time. Somebody to tell ‘em why.”

“We don’t always get to answer the ‘why’, Lieutenant.”

“Well, you give a damn, enough to give it your best shot.” A warmth, unknowable, primal, spread through that darkness, and you realized that somewhere along the current of the conversation that both of you had leaned in closer than you originally intended. You were about to withdraw, embarrassed—whatever the tension inside you demanded, you swore it would stay professional, only and always, unless—

It was a smile. A smile of such resplendent warmth and sadness that you were drowning in it. “I wish more of us cared as much about the dead,” he murmured, and in sheer wonder you felt him crane his head down toward your face. His mouth fell gently, gracefully over yours, sealing you with the taste of him, the heat of the Scotch, the tough musculature of his jaw, and the scrape of his silver beard and upper lip.

It was like being electrocuted, a crack in the sternum, and you felt yourself give in, your mouth falling pliant and soft into the kiss. You pressed against him, finding fires unbidden, and your confessions unraveled one by one inside of you, wanting more. And then  _more_.

Your hands slipped up his chest, palms sweeping over the fabric of his shirt, and you felt the deep rumble of a groan rising from him. One hand crawled a little further, your nails curling at the base of his throat, and the groan became a  _growl_.

Life—life—that was the pulse that echoed as he lifted his body with you in tow, leaning back on the cushions, drawing you with his hands at the slopes of your waist into his lap. His tides of grey and silver hair, the carvings of crow’s feet and laugh lines and worry lines, brushed with tender care into his face, and he was  _alive_ , beneath you, his broad arms wrapped around you.

You sank claws into his chest and swept your lips over his cheekbones, his hairline, the scratch and brush of his beard, exposing his groans to open air. “ _Hank_ ”, you shuddered into his neck, and for it earned the thrumming, blooded sensation of his cock growing behind his jeans. The lingering scents of Scotch and leather and the peculiar property of aging cloth to hold onto the waft of detergent mingled with the unnamable, heady aura that belonged to his body, and his alone.

Hank’s hands slipped eagerly from your waist down your backside, where one callused palm fled in ardor up the silk of your inner thigh, and you gasped, dying for him to find every contour of your person, quaking when he gradually pushed the hem of your skirt higher and higher.

“God  _damn_ ,” he muttered, a low growl threatening to become a roar if you let him continue. You proceeded merely to do worse.

His permission led you to the fly of his jeans, buttoning them down with trembling hands. His length sprang against your palms, and twitched, the blush of his head piercing past the waistline of his underwear.

“Sh-shit,” he mumbled, but any embarrassment was blown away by the whirlwind of garments fluttering off the both of you. You weren’t sure when he flipped you over, only that afterwards the roughness of the hair on his chest, the press of his belly and his heavy hips, were all you wanted to feel forever. It was even better than coasting along the fabric of his shirt, his well-worn coat.

Hank snarled and panted into your ears, scratching you with hungry kisses, unable to stifle a loud grunt through his nose when the scouring of his teeth over your collarbones drew the sweet song of moans from you.

He was astonishingly gentle—torturously slow, searing, tender—when he moved to slide himself inside you. His paces slowed, his fierce mouth returning to slow and careful kisses wrapped over your lips. From head to toe, you shook, the earth quaking as he pushed at last into the depths of you. He filled you so that you had had to part your thighs wider just to fit together, and it was the job of one of his hands to cup the back of one thigh, lifting to support you.

At this slow and endless pace, the slick, red heat of him rocking into you was no less than murderous. You bucked, thrashed, biting at his jaw and his neck, dragging your nails down his back as he moved with you faster and then faster still. No, no, your soul would not survive this. No soul could be laved with such delirious love and desire and withstand total incineration.

Which is why it was utterly unfair that, just as you felt the base of his spine begin to clench, he groaned in his gravelly, baritone drawl, “Y’know— _ah, fuck_ —what they call this in French, huh?” He managed a shaky laugh as his hips snapped, becoming irregular. “This—that I’m about to—”

“ _Tell me_ ,” you seethed, with longing, combing through the beautiful curtain of his hair.

“I hear they call it  _la petite mort_ ,” he exhaled, raggedly, pronunciation thick with his Detroit brogue.

_The little death._

That was certainly what it felt like as all immortal heat and light overtook you when he all but shouted a moan and spilled himself, and you followed him howling into liminal heaven and hell.


End file.
